hilltopics
images people features
wednesday, february 28, 2001
9A
for comments, contact kristielliott at 864-4924 or features@kansan.com
It it took was a pebble to set off Buck Rowland.
On a balmy Christmas Eve day in 1994, Rowland and a friend were walking on Massachusetts Street.
A pebble hit Rowland on the head. Profanity burst from a car waiting at the stop light at 11th and Massachusetts streets.
"Faggots! Queers!"
rowland, a gay activist in the Lawrence community, jumped into action.
The car turned onto Massachusetts, which was clogged with slow-moving traffic. Rowland ran into the street and challenged the three men in the car. Two looked scared. The other wanted to fight. Rowland opened the door and dragged him out onto the pavement. The two neared blows as police arrived.
"My anger got the best of me," Rowland admits today.
For 38-year-old Donald "Buck" Rowland, graduate student in education, the pebble was part of a rock slide of abuse he's taken throughout his life as a gay Kansan.
His response? Instant, direct, aggressive. Rowland may be a loving husband of 13 years who calls his mother several times a week, but, if provoked, he quickly gets tough. And it doesn't take much to provoke him — not anymore.
Rowland pressed charges against the men on Mass. Street. Courts forced all three to apologize and perform community service.
Many gays and lesbians shy away from confrontation with gay bashers.
"That only reinforces the behavior of the people who do it." says Rowland.
"When I was in elementary school, people were in the closet about being divorced," he said. "What I learned was to be independent of other people's value systems."
"I've had guns pulled on me. I had a car destroyed, a house broken into and defaced. I've been beaten up. Singled out by the police," he says.
Roland grew up in Wichita, raised by a single mother and her extended family. A single mom was a rarity in the 1960s.
When Rowland found out one of the pebble-throwers worked at a local fast-food restaurant, he began to drop by to order a ham burger whenever the man was working
The ring reminds Rowland of her strength and determination, he says.
Rowland came out of the closet when he was a junior in high school.
Glenda Griggs, Roland's mother, remembers those years more matter-of-factly.
Out of the closet
"Every day people confronted me," he says. "I had teachers call me a faggot in the hallways at high school."
"I just wanted him to know I was still here and that I wasn't afraid," Rowland said.
Rowland wears a gold ring on the pinkie finger of his right hand. It's the ring his mother wore when she was single, to keep people from asking questions. She gave the ring to Rowland about 20 years ago.
When his high school French club planned a trip to Europe, the group had dinner with the travel agency that was arranging the trip.
"I never let it bother me," she says. "I did what I had to do. Most people were going to homes and giving their babies up."
At the dinner, Rowland met a young man from another school. The two went out. The young man eventually told his teacher of his flirtation with Rowland. When the news came back to Rowland's teacher, she and the travel agency canceled the trip.
"All of a sudden I realized it — this is your child." Grigsz saves now.
"There just came a point where I could not tolerate being oppressed for being gay. If people didn't like it, that was tough."
Home life wasn't easy either, but Rowland's mother eventually accepted her son.
"I had to explain to the whole French club what had happened," he recalls. "That was a lot of fun."
Griggs, who works in a Wichita diner, doesn't tolerate people talking badly about gay and lesbian people. It makes her feel bad for her son, she says.
"It still upsets me," she says. "I just say, 'How would you feel or what would you do if your child were gay?'
While she doesn't tell them about her son directly, Griggs delivers a stern lecture to people using hate speech.
Girgs says she sees parts of her personality in Rowland.
A lot of Navy veterans end up with a tattoo. Rowland left the service with a new first name.
"It's a way for me to hold on to the past now," he says.
"He's very outspoken," she says. "Very opinionated. He doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."
Spurred to activism
In the Navy, friends began to call him "Buck."
He no longer tells the story of how — or why — he got the name.
the friends who gave him the nickname all have died from AIDS since then.
Rowland enlisted in the Navy in the early 1980s. It was a time when the services asked and Rowland told the interviewer he was gay.
"He just laughed, checked 'yes,' and sent me on through." Rowland recalls.
He first assignment was Balboa hospital in San Diego — a building commonly called the "Pink Palace." It was across the street from a gay park in a gay neighborhood.
Rowland marched in a gay pride parade—which went right in front of the base. His commander and others from the base watched. The commander later spoke to Rowland privately, telling him he needed to be more discreet and that he was putting his
Uncompromising queer
Buck Rowland faces homophobes with unflinching resolve
Donald "Buck" Rowland, Lawrence graduate student, and his partner of 13 years Mark Sandercock, background, lead mostly typical Midwestern lives. Growing up gay in Kansas has honed Rowland's sense of social responsibility." I've had guns pulled on me, I had a car destroyed, a house broken into and defaced; I've been beaten up, singled out by the police," Rowland said.
story by clay mecunistion kansan senior staff writer photo by jamie roper
Buck Rowland's current projects;
Information Outreach Specialist for the Douglas County MDS Project Focuses on education in the gay community
Host and co producer of Queer Radio Weekly radio program features interviews, information and entertainment on
queer issues
Lawrence Assistant for the Liberla Press:
Assists LBGT monthly magazine serving Wichita and Kansas City areas.
Graduate student
Graduate student: Finishing a master's degree in education, focusing on instructional technologies
career in jeopardy.
Rowland was unconcerned. He knew how many gay and lesbian sailors there were.
"They would have been understaffed if they'd gotten rid of him," he said.
Next to the ring from his mother, Rowland wears a simple gold band. It's a gift from the man he calls his husband — Mark Sandercock. The couple has not had a formal ceremony, but each calls the other his husband anyway.
Rowland met Sandercock when they shared a biology class at Wichita State University. After leaving the Navy, Rowland had gone back to school to study education.
"It didn't feel like something that needed to be addressed," he said.
"He seemed to have a lot of confidence, and he was really good-looking," says Sandercock, whose father's work in the Air Force brought his family to Wichita. "I tend to be a little shier."
Sandercock says his father had worked with several gay and lesbian people in the military. Sexual orientation was never a big deal in his home.
The couple is a study in contrasts. While Rowland finds solace in religion, Sandercock says it is "less important" to him. While Rowland works in high-profile community activities, Sandercock restores furniture.
"He kind of spices up my life, and I calm his life down." Sandercock says.
"It's always about conflict and compromise" he says
Rowland says Sandercock is tolerant of his flery temperament.
Rowland organized a gay and lesbian event at Wichita's annual River Festival. Rowland brought together speakers, art and live music for a day of activities directed to the queer community. About 150 people attended.
nise, he says.
Sandercock puts his finger on an event in the summer of 1988 that as a turning point for Rowland's activism.
"It was something he put together completely by himself," Sandercock says. "I thought that was so cool."
Rowland called the event his farewell to the Wichita queer community.
"I hate Wichita," he says. "I still do. But I hated leave there thinking I didn't try."
An outspoken advocate
Rowland's life has had one constant through the years:
"I've learned to create my own worlds," he says. "I don't fit into the one society's given me."
After moving to Lawrence in 1989, Rowland graduated from the University of Kansas in 1993 with a degree in education.
That manifests itself in Rowland as constant restlessness. Constant dissatisfaction. And a constant striving to change the world society has given him.
"It would be a lot more emotionally rewarding to be a prostitute — at least at the end you know somebody's pleased," he says. "You have to hide so much about yourself."
Roland said it was difficult to find a job in the area because he doesn't coach sports. He did substitute teaching for a time, though he found it unfulfilling.
Rowland is now working on his masters' degree in education at KU. He hopes to have his work wrapped up by May.
While going through the routine educational channels of the University, Rowland threw himself into the Lawrence queer community. He volunteered in Queers and Allies, and then from 1989 to 1999 was the Lesbian/Bisexual/Gay/Transgender Liaison for the University.
He worked out of the Student Development Center. While he looks back at his work with pride, he often was frustrated.
Mary Ann Rasnak, director of the center, supervised Rowland for the year he worked as the liaison.
"He worked many hours beyond those for which I could pay him," she says. "Buck never just sat at his desk and waited for people to come to him."
Matthew Skinta, Andover senior, was the director of Queens and Allies while Rowland was LBGT liaison. He says Rowland was an inspiration and a help.
"He kind of embodies a lot of the ideology of queer activism." Skinta says.
But Skinta says that Rowland's abrasiveness sometimes entered the equation.
"He's a very outspoken advocate," he said. "He has his own point of view — sometimes that's led to conflict with other activists in the queer community in Lawrence."
When Rasnak changed the name of the LBGT liaison to that of LBGT resource coordinator last semester, Rowland was unhappy. He says the change was done in good faith but is just inaccurate.
"There are no actual resources to coordinate," he says. "The administration really doesn't put resources out."
The name was changed anyway.
Rowland now works as an Information Outreach Specialist focusing on the gay male community for the Douglas County AIDS Project.
His activism took a new form two years ago when he joined with Lawrence resident Brad Koehler to create Queer Radio, a weekly show featuring information and entertainment focusing on queer issues. The show airs 4 p.m. Mondays on J.K.HK.
And through it all, he forcefully advocates equality for queer people.
"I'm a very abrasive person, and I know that," he says. "It makes me glad that that gift has been given to me instead of someone who might feel defeated by it. Better me than someone who can't take it."
- Edited by Joshua Richards